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UNDERNEATH THE BOUGH 



UNDERNEATH 
THE BOUGH 

A BOOK OF VERSES 

• By 
GEORGE ALLAN ENGLAND 




THE GRAFTON PRESS 
NEW YORK 






,ftfV_ 



LIBRSRY <i' OONGRESS 
Two OKtoies RecBivsd 
JUL 26 1904 
Oooyrtriit Entry ^ 

CLASS OL XXo. Na 

' COPY B / 



Copyright, 1903. by 
GEORGE ALLAN ENGLAND 



This little book is offered to 

AGNES 

its inspirer, in this the tenth year 

of her reign. 



I desire to express my sincere thanks to Dr. 
Titus Munson Coan, Mr. Justo Quintero and 
Mr. A. B. Myrick for assistance rendered, and 
to acknowledge the kind permission to reprint 
certain of these verses given me by The Literary 
Digest, Harvard Illustrated Magazine, Vogue, 
Middletown Forum, Red Letter, Literary 
Review, Boston Transcript, Town Topics, 
Smart Set, The New York Herald and other 
periodicals. 

G. A. E. 



CONTENTS. 



I. The Race of the Mighty 

II. Songs & Sonnets. 
Love Beatified 
Morning, Noon and Night 
Dante 

Love's Blindness 
Hesperides 
My Garden 
Erinnerungen 
The Battle Royal 
Espana 
Love's Fear 
Longings . 
Horace, IV, 8 
Ricordatevi Di Me 
The Tower 
Love's Prayer 



PAGE. 
I 



9 

10 

II 

12 

^3 
i8 

19 
20 
21 
22 

23 
24 
26 
28 
3o 



Contents — Continued. 



PAGE. 



Combien J'ai Douce Souvenance 


• 31 


My Little Red Devil and I . 


• 33 


The College Pump . 


37 


I Disputanti 


. 38 


Quand Vous Serez Bien Vieille 


• 39 


One Summer Night 


40 


A Une Fleurette 


42 


Blest Be the Day . 


43 


Mignonne Allons Voir Si La Rose . 


44 


Religion 


45 


The Great Woods Were Awakening 


46 


I-N-R-I . 


47 


Fayre Robyn 


48 


Coeur de Femme 


51 



in. Ballades & Rondeaux 

Ballade of the Sick . . 54 

Three Rondeaux from Charles 

d'Orleans . . -56 

The Song of the Poor . . 59 

Kyrielle . . . .62 



Contents — Continued. 



Rondeau 

When I First Saw Edmee 

My Old Coat 

A Pantoum 

When Doris Deigns 

IV. The Year 

Spring — May Evening 
Summer — August Rain 
Autumn — November in Cambridge 
Winter — Hampton Holidays 

V. Mors Omnium Victor 

Gunga Din in Hell 

Cui Bono ? 

The Bride-Bed 

Dead Loves 

Death the Friend 

La Jeune Fille 

Lucie 

Luctus in Morte Passeris 



PAGE. 

. 64 
. 65 

. 66 
. 68 

. 70 



72 

73 
74 
75 

78 

79 
80 
81 
82 

83 
84 
89 



Contents — Continued. 



PAGE. 



Death in December , . 90 

The Royal Council . '92 

Carmen Mortis . . '93 



THE RACE OF THE MIGHTY 



The Race of the Mighty' 



THE START 

THE appointed time at length the dials show. 
" Attention, both! . . . Now, are you 
ready? . . . Go ! !" 
The chauffeur grips his lever with a hand 
Of steel. — A leap! — A flash of wheels! A grand 
And supple beast-like spring! — A growl of gear! 
As, sweeping through the multitudinous sea 
Of men upraising full-voiced cheer on cheer. 
He whirls away to promised victory! . . . 

ON THE ROAD 

The high road stretches straight and white 

Away 
To dreamy distance, on and on — 

The day 
Dawns sharp and foggy; nips the driver's 

Nose, 
Despite his costly furs. Zounds ! How 

It blows ! 
The motor purrs ! — Our mobile seems 

To fly. 



• From Gaetan de Meaulne's " Course des Grands Masques." Hei 
reprinted by courtesy of the New York " Herald." To this translatio 
was awarded the Herald's First Prize of 500 francs. 



Nor touch the ground . . . (Pneumatic 

Mystery!) 
The motor purrs ! — Farewell wood, field 

And stream ! 
Once on the road, we've scanty time 

To dream ! 
The motor purrs ! — Look out ! A sheer 

Decline. 
Temptation whispers: Faster here! 

It's fine ! 
Faster? It's madness ! Yes, I know ! — 

But on ! 
Full speed down hill ! Another record 

Gone ! . . . 
The driver plunges out of view . . . 

See, there 
He climbs the distant slope again. 

I swear 
He'd scale Olympus ! Yet that course 

Is clear 
From many mishaps that beset 

Us here ! 
We crush a cursed mongrel in 

The dust ! 



Slow down to miss an English spinster, 

Just 
Graze by her on her clumsy, ancient 

Wheel !— 
Rout ducks and chickens, set the pigs 

A-squeal ! 
It's not our fault ! We can't be kept 

All day 
To clear the road ! . . . Speed on ! — Away! 

Away ! . . . 

THE STRUGGLE 

But hark!. . . Behind, a trumpet-blast winds clear! 
Great God! Our dread competitor draws near; 
We'd half a minute start, and now, like Fate, 
He's rushing onward to annihilate 
Distance and time, whirled in a hurricane! 
Inexorably we see him gain and gain. . . . 

"Now' — speed her up! " the boy cries out. 

" More speed ! " 
"The cursed motor's gone to sleep! — Indeed, 
"We're hardly doing fifty miles an hour. 
"But he won't pass us yet awhile! More 

power!" . . . 



3 



The driver heeds ; he moves — the furious pace 
Grows frenzied ! Oh, the glory of a race 
Like this of modern days, with steady hand 
To steer a whirlwind through a startled land ! 

THE WATCHERS 

'' The first is near ! — Let no one cross ! — 

"Take care ! 
" See ! There they are ! — Look out ! The 

horn ! Beware ! 
" Stand back ! — They're two ! . . . It's Girardot ! 

No, no ; 
" It's Charron No, it's Levegh ! — How they 

blow 
"That horn!" . . . But who can hope to recognize 
Or name the shrilling bullet in its flight ? 
And what are names when glory blinds the eyes? 
The towns love sport, and cheer ; but, half in 

fright 
The laboring peasants stop their ploughs to see 
This avalanche — this hurtling mystery! 



THE FINISH 

Untiring, on their mounts of fire and steel, 
The shielded chauffeurs, watchful, hand on 

wheel, 
Have flashed through many a league ; — have 

breathed the dust 
Of devious ways ; have skirted wood and sea; 
Have traversed towns, crossed rivers, hills and 

dales ; — 
Nor halted once ! To learn geography 
By such vast lessons, though it tire the flesh, 
Exalts the soul and makes the spirit free. 
But now must end this vast. Titanic race ! 
(It cannot last forever !) — See ! The place 
Lies there !. . . A broad, white banner bars the way, 
Between two lofty poles with streamers gay. 
The "FINISH" there we read. The end at last! 
All rest and glory, once that goal is passed ! 
A final burst ! — The driver grips the bar ! 
The "FINISH !" In the road he sees afar 
A judge with solemn air attentive stand. 
Waving a crimson kerchief in his hand. . . 
" Stop ! " Harshly grinds the brake — " What 

number's this ? " 
" Your name? " 

Recorded ! 

Apotheosis ! ! 



SONGS & SONNETS 



Love Beatified. 



L 



OVE, slain by us and buried yesterday, 
Rose up again, nor in his grave would 
stay. 



On his earth-stained brotv and sightless eyes 
Still shone the splendours of our Paradise. 

Hushed was each dissonance, every fault made 

clean, 
And joys^alone I saw, that might have been. 

It never seemed our Love could shew so fair 
As that dead Presence, shrined in glory there. 

I would not have our Love to live again, 

And blend each pleasure with his greater pain. — 

Oh better" far this blessed death, and rest ! 
Dead Love I clasp, I cherish to my breast 
And ever shall, for this I know is best ! 



Morning, Noon and Night. 

LOVE thee when the gates of eastern light 
Are opened by the Morning-star, aflame; 
I love thee when the rose-red heavens pro- 
claim 
The coming of their lord, to mortal sight, 
And cloudless, when from his imperial height 
He looks in glory down. I breathe thy name 
With thoughts of love, when drowsy Noon the 

same 
Poised, equal distance holds, twixt dawn and 
night. 

I love thee when the West begins to glow, 
And when the restless winds lie still in heaven; 
I love thee when the deepening shadows fall. 
As comes with Tyrian dye, soft, purple even; 
But when, from out the waters, rises slow 
The noiseless Night, I love thee best of all. 



EO 



Dante. 

THOU'RT but a pensive, dreaming Boy, 
when first 
To thy sad eyne the sight of Love 
appears 
With blessed Beatrice. Nine circling years 
Name thee the wounded Lover, whose sweet 

thirst 
Is never sated, nor whose fever less. 
At Campaldino thou'rt the mailed Knight ; 
Savage to spur thy City on toward right 
Thou'rt driven, its scape-goat, to the wilderness. 

There, in the stranger's house whose stairs are 

pain 
To mount, whose bread is bitter to thy mouth. 
Dawns thy Great Vision, mid thy soul's last 

drouth ; 
And, past Hell's flame and Purgatory's round, 
Greets thee thy love most gentle, once again, 
Thou frowning Florentine with laurels crowned ! 



II 



Love's Blindness. 



^/ /""^ LOVE, my Love, thou canst not 
V^^ know how sweet, 

How dear thou art ! " — " Naught 
would I know, save this 
That thou wilt ever yearn to share my kiss ! 
So being, I reck not whether years be fleet 
Or endless ! " — " But thou canst not see thy 

face 
As others see thee ! Thy deep eyes that greet 
Their lucent-mirrored glimmerings, melt and 

meet 
In glory there, to blind themselves a space ! " 

" Hush, O my heart ! Thy vain hyperbole 
Means naught ; but take in both thy hands and 

turn 
To thee this face of mine, and kiss my brow, 
And after that mine eyes which cannot see 
But only feel thy lips that thrill, and now 
My mouth, and now — O God ! thy kisses burn !" 



Hesperides. 



Now once again the angry sun 
Wheels up the heaven his tireless way ; 
Once more we strangling herds of men 
Wake to our labours never-done, 
Rise up to toil another day. 
Down flares the heat on town and street, 
Wide-warping pillar, span and plinth ; 
Once more my burning, wearied eyes 
Within this monstrous labyrinth 
Meet the mad heat that stifles me. 
And O, my bafiled spirit flies 
In dreams to thy green wood and thee. 
To thee!... To thee !... 



«3 



II 



My pavement-wearied feet again 

Tread the rough streets whose ways are pain. 

Hot with the sun's last sullen beam, 

And yet — I dream ! 

Dream when I wake, and at high, blinding Noon, 

Or when the moon 

Mocks the sad City in her sullen night 

That burns too bright ! 

So sweet my visions seem 

That from this sordid smoke and dust I turn, 

Turn where the dim Wood-world calls out to me 

And where the forest-virgins I half see 

With green mysterious fingers beckoning ! 



•4 



Where vine-wreathed woodland altars sunlit 

burn, 
Or Dryads weave their mystic rauntls and sing. 
Sing high, sing low, with magic cadences 
That once the wild oaks of Dodona heard j 
And every wood-note bids me burst asunder 
The bonds that hold me from the leaf-hid bird! 
I quafF thee, O Nepenthe ! Ah, the wonder 
Grows that there be who scorn not wealth and 

ease, 
Who still will choose the street-life, rough and 

blurred, 
Who will not quest you, O Hesperides ! . . . 



15 



Ill 



And now, and now. . . I feel the forest-moss ! 

O, on these moss-beds let me lie with Pan, 

Twined with the ivy-vine in tendrilled curls ! 

And I will hold all gold that hampers man 

But the base ashes of a barren dross ! 

On with the love-dance of the pagan girls ! 

The pagan girls with lips all rosy-red, 

With breasts up-girt and foreheads garlanded ! 

With fair white foreheads nobly garlanded ! 

With sandalled feet that weave the magic ring 

Now ... let them sing. 

And I will pipe a song that all may hear. 

To bid them mind the time of my wild rhyme ! 

Away ! Away ! Beware our mystic trees ! 

Who will not quest you, O Hesperides ? . . . 



16 



IV 



Great men of song, what sing ye ? Woodland 

meadows? 
Rocks, trees and rills where sunlight glints to 

gold ? 
Sing ye the hills adown whose sides blue shadows 
Creep when the westering day is growing old ? 
Sing ye the brooks where in the purling shallows 
The small fish dart and gleam ? 
Sing ye the pale green tresses of the willows 
That stoop to kiss the stream ? 

Or sing ye burning streets and sweating toil 
Where we spawned swarms of men, unendingly, 
Above, below, in mart and workshop's moil 
Have quite forgot thee, O mine Arcady ? . . . 



17 



My Garden. 

With a copy of "Sonnets of this Century." 



THIS little book, a Garden where the 
bloom 
And fragrance of an hundred years are 
pent, 
To thee, dear girl, at Christmas-tide is sent 
By one who breathes with love the sweet 

perfume 
Of such frail flowers. Let aye the world 

consume 
Itself with toil and labour — such are all 
Without the bounds of this my garden-wall. 
And I, in light, feel not nor heed their gloom. 

Come thou into my Garden ! Let me show 
Thee all the treasures that do lend it grace. 
These goodly Sonnets, standing in a row 
To tell of joy, tears, love, — life's madrigal; 
And, mistress of the pure enchanted place, 
Be thou the fairest Flower among them all ! . . . 



i8 



Erinnerungen. 



SCHWER ist mein Herz, und heute kann 
ich nicht 
Mehr lesen — kann nicht denken, leiden 
mehr. 
Aus jeder Ecke kommt ein Schatten her, 
Wie aus dem toten Himmel geht das Licht. 
Ich sinn' und sinn' — iche sehe ihn noch, wie er 
Vor langen Jahren zartlich schaut' mich an 
Eh' unsere reine Liebe erst begann 
Langsam zu sterben, ich zu trauern sehr. . . 

Schwer ist mein Herz. Aus seinen Ecken auch 
Kriechen die Schatten, schnell und 

schneller. Jetzt 
Vernimmt mein miides Ohr den ersten Hauch 
Der Winternacht . . . Es glimmert Strom und 

Wald 
In dunkler Feme . . . Dies vergeht zuletzt, 
Und alles endlich finster ist und kalt. . . 



»9 



The Battle Royal. 



THOU Battle -Royal ! Kings and gentlemen 
At arms, and lords have fought thee 
since the mists 
Of time, back-rolling, show'd thy mimic lists 
And pigmy warriors, mazed and harried then 
As now in meshes of thy checkered strife — 
Unshielded Pawns, trim Knights and frowning 

Rooks 
Stolid yet quick, and Bishops smug, with looks 
A-squint, and King with lame yet endless life. 

Thou Battle Royal ! Years unnumbered soil 
Cards, draughts and dice with myrid grime-worn 

hands. 
Thou, lov'd by dames and lords in all the lands 
Of this broad world art still the world's best 

play; 
Where, as in life, whilst others struggle, toil, 
And die, the imperious Queen controls the day ! 



20 



Espana. 



"Que era, decidme, la nacion que un dia 
Reina del mundo proclamo el destine ? . . . 

Siuintana — Oda a Espana. 



WHERE now that Nation proud which 
Destiny 
Once did proclaim this world's 
all conquering queen ? 
Where now that sceptre, that bright blazon seen 
That mark'd her mistress over land and sea ? 
A lost emprise, a shattered galleon she. 
Sails rent and hull agape that once have been 
World-powerful ; her rotting masts careen 
With each dark surge of long-pent enmity. 

On through sea's salty wastes the tempests 

spurn. 
The waves rebuff her; lights no more there 

gleam 
Nor vergies wave on her high carven beam. 
Stilled is the sailor's jest, the skipper's song ; 
In swirling fogs of night she drives along 
With Helmsman Death stark-frozen at the 

stern!.... 



21 



Love's Fear. 

VIRGIN art thou and pure, amid a throng 
Of such sweet hallowed names as all 
men praise. 
(Grown all too scant in these our latter days !) 
To holy hours of old dost thou belong ; 
Saint Agnes then had heard thine even-song, 
Nor left thee, darkling, in Earth's devious ways. 
Thou'rt one with that sweet sisterhood which 

raise 
To " untouched Dian," all clear streams 

along. 
Their full-voiced anthem. Thou a Vestal 

art 
At true-love's altar. Atala, and the Maid, 
And Mary all are sisters of thy blood ! 
Thy very name is virgin ! . . . I, afraid. 
How shall I press my kisses on thy heart. 
Or loose the girdle of thy maidenhood ? . . . 



22 



Longings. 



"... Nessun maggior dolore 
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
Nella miseria. . ." 

Inferno^ V, 121. 

FAR from the sea-girt City that I love, 
My wandering ways by care attended 
lie ; 
Cold is the azure of this foreign sky. 
And strange these clustered stars that burn 

above. 
Out from this loveless land would I remove 
To seek thy spring Pierian, never-dry. 
Thou thrice-crowned City ! Hear my fainting 

cry. 
Let not my passionate longing fruitless prove ! 
Would I once more might see the dome of 

gold 
Burning aloft, beneath my native sky ! 
The river, winding near my home of old. 
And once again to breathe before I die. 
The evening breeze, may it be granted me, 
In that fair city by the distant sea ! . . . 



*3 



The Eighth Ode of the Fourth 
Book of Horace. 

To C. Martius Censorinus. 

"Donarem pateras grataque commodus. . . " 

FREELY to my companions would I give 
Beautiful bronzes, Censorinus, bowls 
And tripods, once a guerdon to the souls 
Of hardy Greeks ; nor should'st thou bear 

away 
The meanest of my gifts, could I but live 
Possessed of arts like those Parrhasius plied, 
Or Skopas, now depicting human clay 
And now a god, in liquid colors one 
In solid stone the other. But denied 
To me are equal powers ; need hast thou none 
In mind or state for treasures like to these. 
Thou dost delight in songs, and such are mine 
To give, and fix a value to each song. 
Not marbles carved with public elegies. 
Whence to illustrious leaders still belong 
In dreamless death their praises half divine. 
Not the precipitate flights of Hannibal 



24 



Nor those retorted threats that wrought him 

shame, 
Not impious Carthage and her flaming fall 
More highly show, than the Calabrian Muse, 
Glories of him who, having gained a name 
From prostrate conquered Africa, returned. 
Neither if writings should perchance refuse 
To herald forth what thou so well hast earned 
Wouldst thou have fitting praise. What were 

the son 
Of Mars and Ilia, if in jealousy 
Silence had drowned those lofty merits won 
By Romulus ? Through eloquence, through 

strength 
And favor of all poets loved of fame, 
Aeacus hallowed is, from Stygian floods. 
To the fair Islands of the Blest at length. 

The Muse forbids the worthy man to die ; 
She blesseth him with Heaven. Thus Hercules, 
Untiring victor, finds a place on high 
At Jove's desired feasts. Tyndareus' sons. 
Clear-shining stars, thus from the deepest seas 
Rescue the shattered ships. Thus Bacchus fair. 
Twining his temples with fresh vine-leaves 

green. 
To fruitful issue brings the votaries' prayer. 



25 



Ricordatevi Di Me ! 

(^Terza Rima.^ 

IF ever thou shouldst cease to think of me 
With love, and turn thy soul's sweet 
warmth to ice — 
(Stop not my mouth with kisses ! Change 
may be, 

As all do know who take for their device 
A bleeding heart !) — If any change should seal 
To me the gates of uttermost Paradise, 

And I should darkling fare, with no repeal. 
In company of them, that, love forsaken, 
Before cold shrines and at dead altars kneel. 

Remember this — I bade thy heart awaken ; 
Here in this hand it lay a prisoner ! 

Thy first wild love-kiss from my lips was 
taken, 

And with my breath thy first sighs mingled 
were ! 
Remember this — I loved thee well and long. 
Thou haven to me, a time-worn wanderer ! 

26 



Then, though my voice be drowned in that 
clear song 
Of thy new love, and I forgotten be 

Or all-despised, think thou in my wrong 

Some good there was, some truth akin with 
thee. 
Some light half-seen, since I could tune a soul 
Virgin as thine to perfect harmony. 

And crown thy brow with Love's pure 
aureole ! 



*7 



The Tower. 



THERE lies a City of Unnumbered Dead 
Where paths entwine, where hills and 
valleys be, 
And still, black pools ; the cypress mystically 
Shrouds those dark ways. There living souls 

may tread 
With but slow steps and rare. With slow 

steps, led 
By Love two lovers passed ; they spake, and she 
Cast down her mystic eyes lest he might see 
In their vague depths the image of her dread. 

A great round-tower of granite crowns that land. 
Thither they came, and now her starry eyes 
Were raised to his ; that dread which wrought 

them ill 
Behind them with the frozen dead lay chill. 
Up the enchanted stairway hand in hand 
They passed, and issued forth to see the skies. 



II 



And yet their sweetest moment did not seem 

That dizzying issue into tenuous light, 

Where the keen salt-sea wind that lashed their 

height 
Drowned their love-quickened breath as in a 

stream 
Of chill, on-rushing aether ; not the gleam 
Of multitudinous Ocean, nor the bright 
Expanse of Earth could draw their dazzled 

sight 
From the new glory of their passionate dream. 

It was upon the tower's midmost stair 
At one dim diamond-window ; both beguiled 
Paused in the gloom ; she trembled like a child ; 
His hot mouth found her mouth, her gold-twined 

hair. 
And in her milk-white breast her heart beat 

wild 
Beneath one burning kiss he printed there. 



29 



Love's Prayer. 



WHEN thy ripe lips in kisses mould to 
meet 
Mine eager mouth — when thy full 
pulsing throat 
Throbs with thy quickening life-breath — when 

the float 
And tangle of thine ungirt hair, oh Sweet, 
Entwines us, breast to breast, the perfumed heat 
Of each wild sigh fans all my face aflame. 
And beat to beat our passionate hearts the same 
Responses cry, as we Love's creed repeat. 

When in each other's arms, love-wearied, we 
Both nested safe in silken cushions warm 

At Winter-evenfall entranced lie. 
Kissing but closer as we list the storm. 
Then pray we, midst our sweet antiphony 
But this — that love like ours may never die ! . . . 



3° 



" Combien J'ai Douce Sou- 

venance. . . ! 

' 

(^After Chateaubriand') 

OH sweet, how sweet old memories be 
Of one most lovely place, to me — 
My birthplace ! Sister, fair those days 
And free ! 
Oh France, be thou my love, my praise 
Always ! 

Our mother — hath thy memory flown ? — 
Beside our humble chimney-stone 
Pressed us against her heart, whilst you, 

Dear one. 
And I her white hair kissed anew, 

We two. 

Sweet little sister, dost recall 

The stream that bathed the castle-wall ? 

The old round-tower whence came alway 

The call 
Of bells to banish night away 

At day? 



3» 



Dost thou recall the lake — how still ! — 
Where swallows skimmed at their sweet will ? 
The reeds, swayed by the gentle air 

Until 
The sun set on the waters there, 

So fair ? 

Oh, who will give me my Helene ? 
My mountains, my great oak again ? 
Their memory brings with all my days 

Fresh pain ; 
My land shall be my love, my praise 

Always - 



My Little Red Devil and I. 

♦• The Prince of Darkness is a gentleman." 

Twelfth Night. 

MY little Red Devil upon my desk 
With a smile sardonic stands. 
He holds my pen with a patient air 
In his crooked, outstretched hands; 
The paint is worn from his hoof and horn 
And scratched is his curving tail, 
Yet he still holds on with a right good grace, 
A knowing look on his crafty face, 
And spirits that never fail. 

So, what if his fingers are some of them gone. 

And twisted the horns on his head ? 

His cheek still glows, and his aquiline nose 

Is a genuine devilish red ; 

And his tail, beside, is a thing of pride. 

For it swings in a glorious sweep, 

With a graceful bend and a fork in the end 

That would cause a sinner his ways to mend, 

Or a saint, his vows to keep ! 



33 



Though only a single eye has he 

The world and the flesh to view, 

(For the right is gone,) yet the other one 

Has fire enough for two. 

So his eyes ill-mated an air jocund 

To his wrinkled features lend. 

And to see his look you would almost think 

That he was tipping a devilish wink 

To his old, familiar friend. 

Oh, he is a jolly good fellow, in truth. 

With a wit that is ever new. 

And a heart like which, in this world of ours, 

There are only, I fear, too few. 

And he doesn't complain when I come in late 

Or keep him awake o' nights. 

So I have respect for his comfort, too. 

By giving the Devil his utmost due, 

And the whole of his royal rights. 



34 



To everyone else but myself his smile 

Is fixed as the solid stone ; 

He changes the curve of his parted lips 

For me, and for me alone. 

So when I'm in luck he wishes me joy 

With his whole Satanic heart, 

But when I've the blues, it seems he would say 

"Brace up, for the luck will be better some 

day ! " 
And my cares like the wind depart. 

So my Devil and I are the best of friends 

In a sort of a cynical way. 

For he watches me out of his only eye 

As I work at my desk each day, 

And the idle verses I write in hope. 

He quietly smiles to see, 

For he knows full well that at first or last. 

Like Biblical bread on the waters cast, 

They will surely come back to me. . . 



3S 



And at night, as I sit by the ruddy hearth, 

With my pipe and my book, alone, 

Or lazily muse by the embers red 

When the light of the fire is gone, 

I think of him sometimes, and hope in my 

heart 
I never shall see the day 
That sets me adrift from my little friend 
And puts to our sociable life an end, 
By taking my Devil away ! . . . 



36 



The College Pump. 



IN Summertide, beneath high-vaulted shade, 
In Winter, frosted all with glistering rime. 
In chanting Spring, or Autumn's sullen time 
When sodden leaves their tawny beds have 

made — 
Alike when spendthrift Sun his gold afar 
Downthrows, or earth lies shrouded all in cold, 
By evil men and good, by young, by old, 
In every season blessed thy waters are. 

Grandsires and children drink with solaced 

eyes. 
Dazed revellers early come with thirsty shame 
Beneath gray glimmering of the sober skies. 
All day men pause ; and some, at eventide. 
Poets, have hallowed with their touch thy name. 
And with their lips thy waters sanctified. 



37 



I Disputant!. 



LA MIA RAGIONE sento disputare 
Col Core sempre — "Dopo crudel Morte," 
L'una dice, *' con la sua man si forte 
II lume della vita spegni, io andare 
Nel Buio credo . . ." L'altro poi ; "Amare 
E non morir. II mio alto Fattore 
Non puo voler che questo dolce fiore 
Del mio afFetto muoia . . ." "Io parlarc 
Del *Credo' tuo non so; ma non c'e vita 
Futura non c'e Dio. La Cagione 
£ rCaso, solamente . . ." "£ I'Amore, 
L'Amore, quella via giammai smarrita, 
Perduta mai . . ." Sempre cosi col Core 
Io sento disputar la mia Ragione . . . 



38 



"Qiiand Vous Serez Bien 

Vieille . . . Ronsard. 

THOU (being sometime old), by candle- 
light 
Close crouched by the fire, spinning and 
mumbling o'er 
The past, shah croon my verses, marvelling 

more 
That Ronsard sang thy praise, what time thy 

bright 
First beauty was. Then, hearing thee recite 
Such thing, thy drowsy maid, though weary-sore 
And nodding ofF to sleep, shall wake before 
My name and thine, with blessings infinite. 

I under earth shall be, a soul in vain 
Seeking its rest where myrtle shadows play ; 
Thou by the hearthstone cringe, outworn and 

blear. 
My love regretting and thy cold disdain. 
Live ! an thou hear'st me ! Wait no other day ! 
Gather life's roses ere thy night be near ! 



39 



One Summer Night. 



F 



The Fens, June, 1897. 

AR in the west the crescent moon hung 
low, 

A filmy haze about it faintly spread, 
And one bright star, a point of silver light 
Seem'd comrade to it. Whispering Zephyrus 
Tender as love, stole through the list'ning leaves, 
Making a pleasant murmur in the night. 
And touched the glimmering waters with his 

breath. 
The ripples came unnumbered to the shore. 
Soft-murmuring through the sedge and fenny 

reeds 
With that same whisp'ring voice that Pan once 

heard 
What time he first made pipes to sound the 

praise 
Of her whom he had lost. The water's breast 
Was banded with a path of shimmering light 
Broken by the ever-restless waves, which made 
A thousand points of liquid brilliancy. 

40 



And in the beauty of still, hallowed night 
Beside the plashing sandy shore, we met 
In happiness. Each whispering of the wind, 
Each tremulous leaf, and even the sleeping 

flowers 
Seem'd breathing "Love" in tender unison. 
And the sphered star in Heaven sang that word. 

Dost thou remember how from out the grass, 
I plucked a gentle flow'ret by that shore, 
— Anemone some call it, wind-flower some, 
Sprung from the crimson of Adonis' blood 
Where he was slain, — and how I softly said, 
"O thou beloved, beauty is a rose 
Growing in Life's fair garden, by the spring 
Of deathless Purity, and that clear dew 
Which lies within its sweetness hid, is Love." 

Dost thou recall? And so it chance, I pray 
Though we be parted, now and evermore. 
Think sometimes of that night, and fancy still 
We see the summer landscape, glimmering. 
Lit by the steady-burning lights of heaven, 
We scent the sweetness of the warm young 

night, 
We hold the tender wind-flower, and still hear 
The murmuring ripples on the sounding shore. 



41 



A Une Fleurette 



FLEURETTE! Sur sa poitrine si blanche 
et belle 
Combien sens-tu de joie! Quel insense bon 
heur 
Que de t'y prelasser doucement toute une heure! 
Sur ses seins arrondis, la, serree tout centre ellc, 
Tu respires son etre. Une volupte telle 
Que moi j'en sentirais, la, si pres de son coeur, 
Sur ces deux pctits monts de neige, heureusc 

fleur 
Tu ressens . . . Ta mort, meme, o fleurette, 
est un ciel ! 

Dieu ! Que je suis las de tout ce monde de 

peine 
Et de ses vanites et de ses maux ! Toujours 
Te veut mon ame inquiete. Donne-moi 6 

Reine 
Du royaume desert de mon coeur, mes amours, 
Comme a cette fleurette ta poitrine aimee 
Pour y dormir toujours, a toute eternite ! . . . 



42 



Blest Be the Day. 



The XXXIXth Sonnet 

OF Petrarch 

TO HIS Lady Laura. 

He blesseth all the diven cauiet and effects of his love toward her. 

BLEST be the day, the season and the year 
The hour and moment, and the countric 
fair, 
Ay, even that very spot and instant where 
Those two sweet eyne did first to me appear 
Which since have left me — yet that sorrow 

dear 
Of Love still blessed be, like asthe bow 
And shafts wherewith sweet Love did work 

me woe 
With wounds most deep in this my bosom 
here. 

Blest be the many voices wherewithal 

I on my Lady's well-beloved name 

Have called, and blest the sighs, the tears, the 

flame 
Of my desire, and all my screeds designed 
To praise her — yet most blest my thoughts I 

call. 
So hers that none but she may entrance find. . . 



43 



"Mignonne Allons Voir Si La 
Rose...." 

After Ronsard. 

COME, sweet, away ! Come see the rose, 
Now that the day draws near its close. 
See whether it be faded grown — 
Whether at evening fall away 
Those leaves that opened to the day. 

Or dies their blush, so like thine own. 

Thou seest, dear love, its beauties pass, 
Its wasted petals fall, alas !, 

In one short hour. It may not bide. 
Unkind in truth is Mother Earth 
Since dawn gives such a flower its birth 

And Death draws nigh at eventide. 

So, sweet my darling, hear my voice, i 

I bid thee, in thy youth, rejoice ! 

Before thy fragile petals close \ 

Gather thy blossoms whilst thou may. 
With time they fall and fade away 

As droops at night the withered rose. 



44 



Religion. 



FROM that crude savage who, on Libyan 
sands, 
Graves his barbaric god, and kneels thereto ; 
From those mysterious, matriarchal bands, 
Eating strange flesh their spirit to renevi^ 
With fabled ancestors; from Austral lands 
To Hyperborean solitudes, each age 
Hath sought to fend its head from God's dull 

rage 
And stay the cosmic circling with clasped 
hands. 

Yea, we no less ! Doth man dare look away 
Bravely as fits a man ? With fear-sealed eyes. 
Filling the spheres with vast, vague mysteries, 
Man still must hearken some great angel's 

wing. 
Still bow to man-made God, still seek to stay 
With clasped hands the cosmic circling . . . 



45 



The Great Woods Were 
Awakening. 

"Let grands boit B'eTcIllaient ; il faisait jour a peine. . . " 

Pradel. 

THE great woods were awakening. A new 
day 
Was freshly born; enchanted birds 
among 
The clear green foliage raised their matin song 
To praise the morning-glow. Thought-sad I 

lay 
Beneath a gnarled oak ; despite that gay 
Fresh springtide, all my soul was suffering. 
I waited her, and lo ! the rapid wing 
Of fluttering footsteps brushed the dew away. 

Drunken with pleasure in a long-locked kiss 
Our breath enmingled. Tightening in my arms 
That beautiful, supple form, her heart's alarms 
I stifled on my heart. The thicket drew 
Close over us, the sun grew dark, I wis. 
Earth faded. Heaven opened to our view. . . 



4^ 



I-N-R-L 

WITH bleeding brows beneath a thorn- 
meshed crown, 
With swollen hands fast bound in leathern 
thong, 
I saw One stand amid a surging throng 
That spat on Him and strove to drag Him down. 
On His bowed back the ridg'd welts scarlet lay 
Traced long with bloody dew. His haggard face 
Was streaked with sweat and blood, as in that 

place 
He silent stood and silent gazed away. 
Once more that One I saw, still garlanded 
With mocking thorns. Through either bleed- 
ing hand 
And through both patient feet a mangling nail 
Was driven deep. Some cursed, some laughed, 

cried "Hail, 
God crucified! . . ." And some crouched low in 

dread 
And wept, and thunderous darkness filled the 
land . . . 



41 



Fayre Robyn."^ 



F 



AYRE ROBYN he rad owre the brae, 
Hys steede he was a wighty browne ; 
The countrie a' lay at hys back, 
Hys eyen were to the toune. 



Bauld Robyn owre the brae did ride, 
Nor yet a Horde nor yerle was he, 
But mae than ony nobleman 

Hys fayreness was to see. 

And Robyn rad adoun the brae, 
And cam yth High Strete ; 
A gentil pace hys horse hadde 

Whych was baith goode and meete. 

The Shyreff's dauter sate yth wane 
And luikt out o' the window round, 
Therebye Robyn rad and sang, 

A braw and pleasant sound. 



*This North Country ballad probably dates from about 1525. It 
was found in a fragmentary condition in a copy of the 1684 edition 
of Abraham Cowley's Poetical Works, and is here for the first 
time completed and made public. 



48 



She luikt upon hys goodely forme 
He luikt a' in hir deepe blue yee ; 
Robyn doft hys bonnet ; a rose to hym 

She dropit for replye. 

Leeve may o meete me bye the yett, 
And a' taegither we will flie. 
I'll meete thee when the nyghte be com, 

So ryde again soone bye. 

She's met hym when the nyghte was com, 
And a' taegither they hae fled. 
Now gin the ShyrefF com, most sure 

They maun baith be dead. 

The hae na gane a league, a league, 
A league nor barely ane. 
When Robyn saith now by my bloode 

They're reasin a' the toon. 

They hae na gane anither league, 
A league nor barely twa, 
When they do heare a not ffar ofF 

Some bernes that them pursue. 

The be com unto a great roke ; 
Ye faith it was baith deepe and wide. 
The ShyrefF's bernes byn sonygh 

The maun plwnge them in the tyde. 



49 



They've plunged them in the cauld water, 
The spait was ful swift bye ; 
Now byr Ladye, quoth the may, 

Methinks we baith maun dee. 

They've plunged them into the cauld roke; 
The hors they rade sank doun. 
A' yth black water then 

The baith were neere to droune. 

He bare hir firme in hys left arme 
And swam a' wi' his right : 
When the cam to yearth againe 

The hemes byn in sight. 

The hemes rad the roke along 
And saw Robyn's bonnet on the tide. 
Now be the baith to bottom gane, 

Ther may the bide ! 

The Shyreff turned him home again, 
Turned back and went awaie, 
But Robyn and His Ladye ffayre 

Were wed the nextin daye. 



50 



Coeur de Femme. 



1 CANNOT think that woman love as we 
Love them, with soul and body, breath and 
blood. 
And spent soul tortured in the strangling flood 
Of passion's tense oblivious agony ; 
I cannot think the kiss She gives to me 
Thrills her white body as it pulses mine. 
Or in Love's chalice of ambrosial wine 
She drowns all things which were or are to be. 

We please them with our smile, for they are 

vain 
And Love a flatterer is ; they joy to fling 
A rose-entwined leash about their slave ; 
Purple and gold they take, and winnowed grain 
Of gems from Hesperus' isle, — all men will 

bring ; 
But Love — lies bleeding by a woman's grave! 



5« 



BALLADES & RONDEAUX 



Ballade of the Sick. 



|AN these be men, that lie so still, so 
white ? 

Whose hopeless eyes yearn things they 
cannot say ? 
Who scarce can part the daytime from the night 
Save that the night drags heavier than the day ? 
Have these a listening God, to whom they pray ? 
God hears not such, nor cares, right well know I, 
For nameless things I learn through long delay. 
On this strait bed where I perforce must lie. 
I learn of life-in-death ; I learn the blight 
Of seeing my soul and body slow decay. 
Hemmed in with white-walled nothingness. The 

flight 
Of vagrant flies, the sunlight's sluggish way 
Of crawling on — yes, even the shadows gray 
Help tease the laggard moments loathly by. 
Since great are none, small things my pain allay 
On this strait bed where I perforce must lie. 



S4 



I learn to see, nor shrink from any sight. 
That deathmask yonder — carrion mass of clay — 
Hath but a bleeding scrap of lung, to fight 
The ghastly death that knows nor truce nor stay. 
The Polack, old through pains that tear and flay. 
Will go next sennight — how these swart folk 

die! 
Last week they found one, waxen-cold for aye, 
On this strait bed where I perforce must lie. 

ENVOY 

" This too will pass ! " my comfort be alway. 
Hell is forgot of them that chant on high ; 
Yet have I seen such things no man should say, 
On this strait bed where I perforce must lie . . . 



55 



Three Rondeaux from Charles 
d'Orleans. 

I. 

LE TEMPS A LAISSIE SON MANTEAU. 

YE TIME hath lefte his mantle fall 
Of biting windes and cold and rain, 
And well hath dight himself again 
In sunlight shining cleare on all ; 

Creatures be none, nor birds, but call 
One to another their own refrain : 
Ye time hath lefte his mantle fall 

Of biting windes and cold and rain. 

Fountaines and brooks moste musical 
Their fayrest dress to wear be fain ; 
With silvern drops and golde, amain. 

Each newlie decks hymself withall; 

Ye time hath lefte his mantle fall. 



56 



II. 



DIEU! QU'IL LA FAIT BON RE- 
GARDER! 

Ye Gods! How good on her to gaze, 
All-gracious, fayre and sweet of mien ; 
Such virtues be in her y-seen 

All men stand ready with their praise. 

Who then could weary of her ways ? 

Her beautie flowereth ever green ; 

Ye Gods ! How good on her to gaze. 
All-gracious, fayre and sweet of mien. 

This side or yon of Ocean's maze 
Nor dame nor damozel, I ween 
So wholly parfaict yet hath been — 
A dream, to think on her always: 
Ye Gods ! How good on her to gaze ! . . . 



57 



III. 



LES FOURRIERS D'ESTE SONT VENUS. 

Ye maides in waiting all be here 
Of Summertide, to deck her hall, 
To hang her arras, woven all 
With golden flowers and verdure clear; 

To stretch her carpet far and near 
Of soft green moss o'er stone and wall; 
Ye maides in waiting all be here 
Of Summertide, to deck her hall. 

Hearts that but late were cold and drear 
Now (prais'd be God!), their joy recall; 
Come, come away, with snow-wrapped pali! 
Out on thee. Winter, old and blear! 
Ye maides in waiting all be here . . . 



58 



The Song of the Poor. 



*'0 Rois qui serez juges a votre tour." 

BanvilU, 



O KINGS, who must yourselves be judged 
one day, 
Think of the wretched poor that ever 
stand 
On Famine's edge, and pity them ! They 
pray 
For you and love you ; drudging till your land. 
And, toiling, fill your coffers — they withstand 

Your enemies ; yet damned on earth they fare. 
Woe infinite and endless pain they bear; 

Not one there is but knows the keen distress 
Of cold, of heat, and rain and ceaseless care. 
For to the poor all things are bitterness. 



59 



Even as a beast of burden, scourged amain, 
The wretched peasant lives his hopeless life. 

Does he but pluck his grapes, or dare refrain 
An hour from drudging toil, and choose a wife 
To share the sorrow of his unequal strife, — 
His lord, a savage bird of prey, draws nigh ; 

Relentless comes, and, saying " Here am I ! " 
Seizes what little he may chance possess. 
Nothing avails the vassal's pleading cry, 

For to the poor all things are bitterness. 

Pity the wretched jester in your halls ! 
Think on the fisher when the black waves curl 

Their frothing tongues, and crackling light- 
ning falls 
On his frail boat ! Pity the blue-eyed girl, 



60 



Lowly and dreaming, as her young hands whirl 
The droning wheel ! Think of a mother's 
pain 

And torment, as she weeps and seeks in vain, 
Holding her fair dead child in blind distress. 

To warm its cold heart back to life again. 
O, to'the poor all things are bitterness. 

ENVOI. 

Mercy for these thine own, oh Prince, I cry ! 
Peace to thy vassal 'neath his darkened sky. 
Peace to the pale nun, praying passionless, 
And to all such as lowly live and die — 

For to the poor all things are bitterness. 



6i 



Kyrielle. 

NAY, not for me the toil and strife 
Of 'Change, of war, of public life — 
Than go with Fame, I'd rather stay 
With books, and pipe and dear Edmee. 

A little garden ? . . . Well, perchance, 
If weedless flowers, self-raising plants 
Would grow therein, where I might stray 
With books, and pipe and dear Edmee. 

Horses and dogs ? . . . Yes, I'd not mind 
Were I but ever sure to find 
An hour of peace, at close of day 
With books, and pipe and dear Edmee. 

Travel ? . . . Of course ! The Frank might stare, 
The Russian rave, the Turk despair ; 
I none the less would them survey 
With books, and pipe and dear Edmee. 



62 



But homeward-longing ever, I 
Still for our low-built house would sign, 
Where I might peaceful be for aye 
With books, and pipe and dear Edmee. 

Old books and many, pipe not new, 
Edmee all mine, forever, too, 
I'd love them all till I were grey, 
But best and dearest, dear Edmee I . . . 



63 



Rondeau. 

THY breast, dear Doris, ever be 
All-hallowed, consecrate to me, 

A rest where this my heart may go 
Whatever tempests beat and blow ; 
A shelter that my soul may see 
Though all the world speak grievously. 
Warmed in its softness, dear, by thee. 
My love shall sometime come to know 

Thy breast. 

And sometime, too, so reverently 

Thou couldst not. Sweet, refuse my plea. 

I'll kiss the dimple that I know 

Betwixt those little hills of snow 
Waits, till my lips press passionately 

Thy breast ! . . . 



64 



when I First Saw Edmee 

(Villanelle.) 

WHEN I first saw Edmee 
She was clad all in blue. 
A cold colour, you say ? 

Yes, I thought so, that day, 

And my hopes were but few 
When I first saw Edmee ; 
Now, of azure array 

I've quite altered my view — 
A cold colour, you say ? 
Is the sky cold in May ? 

How little I knew, 
When I first saw Edmee. 
All the sweetness there lay 

In the shade that means " true ! " . . , 
A cold colour, you say ? 
Ah, my heart's quite away. 

The sad moment I rue 
When I first saw Edmee. 

A cold colour, you say ? . . . 



65 



Mv Old Coat. 



*' Sois-moi fidele, 6 pauvre habit que j'aime." 

Beranger. 



BE ever true to me, thou well-loved coat. 
For we are growing old together now. 
These ten long years I've brushed thee 
every day 
Myself; great Socrates the Sage, I trow 
Had not done better ! And If remorseless Fate 
Gnaw with sharp tooth that poor, thin cloth of 

thine. 
Resist, say I, with calm philosophy. 
Let us not part, thou dear old friend of mine ! 

How I recall — (for even now I'm bless'd 
With a good memory!), that glad day of days 
When first I wore thee ! It was at my feast ; 
My friends to crown my glory, sang thy praise. 
Thy poverty and age that honor me 
Have not yet made their early love decline — 
They're ready still to feast us once again. 
Let us not part, thou dear old friend of mine! 

66 



Have I perfumed thee with those floods of 

musk. 
Which the vain fop exhales before his glass ? 
Have I exposed thee, waiting audience, 
To scorn and laughter of the great who pass ? 
Just for a paltry ribbon, all fair wide France 
Was rent apart, but simply I combine 
A few sweet wild-flowers for thine ornament. 
Let us not part, thou dear old friend of mine ! . . . 

Fear nevermore those days of struggling vain. 
When the same lowly destiny was ours ; 
Those days of pleasure intermix'd with pain, 
Of sunny sky o'ercast by April showers. 
Soon comes the night, for evening shadows fall. 
And soon forever must I my coat resign. 
Wait yet a little, together we'll end it all. 
And never part, thou dear old friend of mine ! . . . 



67 



A Pantoum. 

HERE I must lie on my bed, 
Longing for health again. 
Crazy thoughts whirl in my head, 
Mix with that endless pain. 

Longing for health again — 
Dreams of walking once more 

Mix with that endless pain. 
Lying in bed is a bore ! 

Dreams of walking once more, 
After these months of repression. 

Lying in bed is a bore 

Past any means of expression ! 

After these months of repression, 

To wander, and study, and revel . . . 

Past any means of expression. 
Pain, you're a villainous devil ! 

To wander, and study, and revel. 

To eat, drink, and live like a man , . . 

(Pain, you're a villainous devil ! . . .) 
With never a doctor to ban — 



68 



To eat, drink, and live like a man. 
To wander in meadow and wood. 

With never a doctor to ban 

Those things that I know to be good . 

To wander in meadow and wood, 
With Someone, enjoying October, 

Those things that I know to be good. 
The sky, be it sunny or sober. 

With Someone, enjoying October, 
To see the gay trees and the hills. 

The sky, be it sunny or sober. 

With a curse on all doctors and pills . 

To see the gay trees and the hills, 
Hope is quick faded and fled. 

With a curse on all doctors and pills. 
Here I must lie on my bed ! . . . 



69 



When Doris Deigns. 

WHEN Doris deigns to gaze on me 
All happy thoughts be mine ; 
Her eyes are two twin stars, I wis, 
Bright in my soul they shine; 
No earth-born flower one half so fair 
As she, no joy can aught compare 
With my sweet fire of love, perdie, 
When Doris deigns to gaze on me ! 

When Doris deigns to smile on me 
The whole world brighter grows; 
A clearer azure takes the sky, 
A deeper blush the rose ; 
The circling lark upon the wing 
A sweeter, purer song doth sing. 
And just a bit of Heav'n I see. 
When Doris deigns to smile on me ! 



70 



THE YEAR 



spring. 

MAY EVENING. 

SILENCE and peace. The warm, love- 
bringing Night 
From the pure zenith soft and slow descend- 
ing 
Lulls the sweet air to rest, with the day's ending, 
Save where the dark bat wheels his fickle flight. 
Deep glows the rosy-golden West, still bright. 
Beyond the plumy toss of elms down-bending, 
Whilst on the close-cut lawns, blurring and 

bending. 
Tall chapel-windows cast their ruddy light. 

Now the clear blue of the mid dome of heaven 
Darkens, immeasurably deep and still. 
That one full star which ushers in the even 
Burns in rapt glory o'er the steadfast spire; 
And the Night-angel strews at his sweet will 
The silvern star-dust of the heavenly choir. 



72 



Summer. 

AUGUST RAIN. 

DEAD is the day, and through the list'ning 
leaves 
The wind-dirge sighs. Sad at my dim- 
lit pane 
I darkling sit to hear the pattering rain 
And pebbly drip that plashes from the eaves. 
Far in the misty fields loll sodden sheaves, 
Whilst every wheel-mark in the rutty lane 
Leads down its trickling rivulet to drain 
Marsh-meadows where the knotted willow 
grieves. 

Gray afternoon to dusk hath given place, 
And dusk to silent darkness falls again. 
Listless, to see the sad earth veil her face, 
I watch the miry fields, the swollen rills, 
And, farther, through my glimmering window- 
pane. 
The rain-swept valley and the fading hills . . . 



75 



Autumn. 

NOVEMBER IN CAMBRIDGE. 

EVEN in her mourning is the College fair, 
With burial robes of scarlet leaves and 
gold 
That flicker down in misty morning cold 
Or fall reluctant through gray evening air. 
The Gothic elms rise desolately bare ; 
A clinging flame the twisted ivy crawls 
Its blood-red course athwart the time-worn walls 
And spreads its crimson arras everywhere. 

High noon brings some wan ghost of summer, 

still j 
Fresh stand the rose-trees yet, the lawns show 

green 
With leaves inlaid, and still the pigeons fly 
Round sun-warm gables where they court and 

preen ; 
But evenfall comes shuddering down, a-chill. 
And bare black branches fret the leaden sky. 



74 



Winter. 

HAMPTON HOLIDAYS. 

LAST comes December with his ruffian 
wind 
Whirled from the maelstrom of the polar 
sea 
To sweep our mighty hill in mockery 
Of such enshrouding snows as would be kind 
And wrap their frozen mother. Stiffly lined 
Through thin and crackling ice the leaves lie 

stark 
As hoar Calna's ice-locked souls, and dark 
In the dark air the branches toss and grind. 

Then dawns another day when winds are still ; 
From our frost-flashing village on the hill 
We greet the laggard sun, and far below 
AH down the valley see the silver spread, 
Save where the dim fir-forest's pungent bed 
Lies thatched by tufted pipe-plumes bright with 
snow. 



75 



MORS OMNIUM VICTOR 



Gunga Din in Hell. 



•'An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din ! " 

Kipling. 

GREEN crawling slime, that bubbles clotted 
blood ; 
White wraiths of fetid steam that rise 
and curl, 
And blood-red mist, convolving in a swirl 
Of lurid heat, o'er that putrescent flood ; 
And under all, a seething, rotting mud — 
Torn souls that once were men — flayed, bleed- 
ing souls, 
Souls drenched with gore from gangrenous 

bullet-holes. 
Green, sightless eyes — and blood, and blood, 
and blood ! 

Lo ! Gunga Din ! He cometh smeared with 

gore 
That dribbles from cleft forehead to the skin 
Of putrid drink, one black foot on Hell's shore, 
One in the slime. A flayed hand toward him 

grasps. 
And one blind, shattered head that bleeds for sin 
Bloats forth its purple tongue in strangling gasps. 



78 



Cui Bono ? 

NAY, vex me not with dead theologies, 
With creeds outworn and vain polemic 
strife ; 
To solve the riddles of some future life 

Why chill my soul with stark philosophies ? 
What then to me is Aristoteles, 
Plato, or he who had the shrewish wife 
(Small blame to her !), or Pyrrho's doubtings, rife 
With contradiction's maziest subtleties ? 

Only one thing is sure — they all are dead ; 
Sere theologians, wranglers of the schools. 
Philosophers and creedsmen have surcease 

From war, their dust no better than the fools' 
Wherewith 'tis mingled undistinguished. 

So, vex me not, but go your ways in peace . . . 



79 



The Bride-Bed. 



SHE died and by her bed I sat all night. 
I had no tears ; it was o'er soon to weep 
In those first hours ; my heart was cleft 
too deep 
For pain to harbor there. A waning light 
From the old moon englorified her bright 
And unadorned hair, a heavy braid 
Across her breast. I watched her, unafraid 
To warm that leaden hand so waxen-white. 

This was her Bride-bed — Death her lover was 
As she had promised I sometime should be. 
She lay entwined in his arms, and I 
Kept watch, and a great cold came over us . . . 

At last the untroubled stars that gazed on me 
Waxed pale and faded in the morning sky. 



80 



Dead Loves. 

LONG summer nights with moon that yearn- 
eth down 
On endless passion, through uncounted 
years, 
On flames of love more hot than all those tears 
Of ardent pain it worketh aye can drown ; 
Long summer nights in vast Assyria's town, 
At white-walled Athens, in imperial Rome, 
Or midst dim Northern forests, by the foam 
Of seas unsailed ere Arthur won renown. 

Moonlight and leafshade — nights full sweet and 

long: 
" O Love, my love, how white thy breast ! Thy 

kiss 
Upon my mouth, how mad ! " — "And thou, how 

strong 
Thine arms ! I fear thy passion !" — "Tell me, 

must 
Not Time and Death bow down to love like 

this ? . . ." 

Now, even tbjir graves are crumbled into dust. 
8i 



Death, the Friend. 



FULL long these dreary weeks of dule I 
spend 
On this my narrow bed of bitter pain. 
Alike to me are sunshine, cloud or rain, 
The day's beginning or its sombre end ; 
Even sleep itself doth little comfort lend, 
For in vast dreams the torment comes again 
Vague and distorted by my feverish brain 

Until I wake and long for Death the Friend. 

Death ! I do fear that empty, breathless Night 
Thou bringest, not the sweat and agony, 
The struggling breath, the terror or the sight 
Of Earth and all my being leaving me; 
For couldst thou promise an awakening — 
Then, Death, enfold me with thy shadowy 
wing ! . . . 



82 



La Jeune Fille. 



" Elle etait bien belle, le matin, 
sans atours ! 

HOW fair, at dawn, how simply did she go, 
Watching her new-born garden flowrets 
thrive, 
Spying her bees in their ambrosial hive, 
Ling'ring beside each hedge and hawthorn row ! 

How fair at eventide lead on the maze 
Of the mad dance, whilst in her massy hair 
Sapphires and roses woven crowned more fair 
That face illumined by the torches' blaze ! 

How fair was she beneath her pure soft veil, 
Outfloating wide upon the listening night ; 
Silent we stood and far, to watch that sight, 
Happy to glimpse her in the starlight pale. 

How fair was she ! Each day some sweetness 

gave, 
Some vague dear hope, pure thoughts and free 

from care. 
Love, love was all she lacked, to grow more fair. 
Peace ! . . . Through the fields they bear her to 

the grave ! . . . 

83 



Lucie. 

Mes chers amis, quand je mourrai, 

Plantez un saule au cimetiere. 

J'aime son feuillage eplore, 

La paleur m'en est douce et chere, 

Et son ombre sera legere 

A la tcrre ou je dormirai. 

Alfred dt Mussel 

^EAR friends beloved, when I die, 
Plant near my grave a willow-tree. 
I love its pale, down-drooping leaves, 
Its grace is sweet and dear to me, 
And light its tender shade will be 
Upon the green earth where I lie. . . 

One night we were alone and by her side 
I sat, she drooped her head and as a-dream 
Over the spinet let her fair hand glide. 
So soft the murmur was it scarce could seem 
More than a zephyr whispering in the reeds, 
Soft moving lest the birds, warm-nested there 
Should hear and wake. The soft, voluptuous 

air 
Of that sweet summer night breathed forth to us 
From flowery chalices beside the glimmering 

stream. 



84 



Far in the silent grove the chestnut-trees 
And ancient oaks swayed their sad branches 

slow ; 
We sat and, listening to the amorous breeze, 
Through the half-opened casement let the low 
Sweet breath of Spring float in. The winds 

were still, 
The plain deserted. All alone we were 
And very young. . . Lucie was blonde and pale 
And pensive. As I musing gazed on her 
No sweeter eyes than hers e'er pierced the deep 
Of purest heaven, or mirrored back its blue. 
I with her beauty drunken was ; in all 
The world I loved but her, and yet so true 
So pure she was I loved her as one loves 
A sister, in all innocence. We two 
Sat silent and alone ; my hand touched hers, 
I watched the dreams upon her face and knew 
In my own soul how strong to heal distress 
Are those twin signs of peace and happiness. 
Youth in the heart, youth mirrored on the brow. 
The moon, uprising in the cloudless skies, 
With silver fret-work flooded her, and now 
Her smile became an angel's smile ; she sang. 
Seeing her image shining in mine eyes. 



85 



Daughter of sorrow, Harmony ! Harmony ! 
Sweet speech for love by Nature set apart ! 
To us thou earnest from Italy — to her 
From Heaven. Sweet language of the heart, 
In thee alone that maiden, Thought, afraid 
And hurt by even a passing cloud, may speak, 
Yet keep her modest veil, and sheltered be. 
Who knows the mysteries that a child may hear 
And utter in thy sighs divine, like thee 
Born of the air he breathes, sweet as his voice. 
And sad as his sad heart ? A glance, a tear 
Is seen, yet all the rest is mystery 
Unknown to the careless world, like that of 

waves. 
Of night, or of the unfathomed wilderness. . . 
We were alone and sad ; I looked on her. 
The dying echo of her song seemed still 
To vibrate in our souls. All passionless 
Drooping upon my heart, she leaned her head. 
The cry of Desdemona didst thou hear 
In thee, dear girl ? I know not — only this. 
That thou didst weep, and on thine all-adored 
Sweet mouth in sadness let me press mine own; 
Thy sorrow was it that received my kiss. . . 



86 



So kissed I thee, all cold and colourless ; 
So, two short months being sped, wert thou 
Laid in the grave ; so didst thou fade in death 
Oh my chaste flower ! And thy dying was 
A smile as sweet as thy fair life had been. 
God took thee pure as when He gave thee breath. 

Sweet mystery of the home of innocence, 
Songs, dreams of love, laughter and childish 

words. 
And thou, all-conquering charm, unknown and 

mild, 

Yet strong to make even Faustus pause before 
The sill of Marguerite at thy command. 
Where are you all ? Peace to thy soul, oh child! 
Profoundest peace be to thy memories ! 
Farewell ! On summer nights thy fair white 

hand 
Will rest no more upon the ivory keys. . . 



87 



Dear friends beloved, when I die, 
Plant near my grave a vi^illow-tree. 
I love its pale, down-drooping leaves, 
Its grace is sweet and dear to me. 
And light its tender shade will be. 
Upon the green earth where I lie. . . . 



88 



LofC. 



Luctus in Morte Passeris. 



"Lugetc, O Veneres Cupidenesque, et quantum est hominum 
venustiorum." 

C. Valerius Catullus. 



I 



BID you all, ye Loves and Cupids, mourn. 
With what of pitying kindness men may 
know. 

The sparrow of my little maid forlorn 
Ay, even my sweetheart's sparrow, cherished so, 
(Loved like her very eyes, ah heavy woe !) 
Is dead. Full sweet was he, and knew her well 
As she her mother knew, nor long would stray 
From her fair breast, save here to hop, or there ; 
His pretty pipings were for her alway. 
Yet now he wings the shadowy gloom of Hell, 
Whence none return to breathe Earth's pleasant 
air. 
But curses on thee, dark and evil shade 
So to engulf all things that lovely be ! 
Thou'st robbed her sparrow from my little maid ; 
(Alas the crime, the sparrow stark and dead !) 
And now with swollen eyes, because of thee 
She weeps, alack, nor will be comforted. 



89 



Death in December. 
I. 

ITH roses will I strew our bed 

Where all thine own thou madest me ; 
With rose-weaths I entwine thy head 
So dear, so dead. 

This is Love's inmost place, where we 
Learned and with madness learned again 
And knew Love's passionate agony 

That wasteth me. 

Now is thy room and mine Death's room, 
And this our bed (O burning kiss !) 
Is made Death's icy bed. The tomb 

Shrouds it in gloom. 

II. 

The snow beats up about the pane 
Where once we watched the August night, 
And wild mad winds drive on amain 

Across the plain. 



90 



III. 

Alone ! . . . Alone ? Beneath my heart 
Fainting I feel our new life beat. 
Where our lives, joined, though dead thou art. 

Share each a part. 

On thy clear temples, bleeding-red 
The rose-wreaths twine, the flowers die. 
With roses do I deck our bed 

Where thou liest dead. 



91 



The Royal Council. 

(To the Peruvian Mummies in the Peabody Museum at 
Cambridge. ) 

BOWED be three time-gnawed heads in 
thoughts profound 
On crackling breast, on fleshless hands, on 
knees, 
Sunk in the depths of endless reveries 

Whilst foolish sun and fretful earth spin round. 
By night they counsel, argue, plan, expound 
And hold high court as once by tropic seas j 
By day they rightly take their royal ease 

As fitteth those whom Death no more can 
hound. 

Sage King, and ye two Councillors of State, 
We look on you with ignorant, living eyes. 
Ye fear no death who be already dead — 

Time pricks you not, nor haste. Ye sit and 
wait. 
Each thoughtful, passionless and very wise. 
With shrivelled bones and parchment-cov- 
ered head . . . 



92 



Carmen Mortis. 



THIS is the Song of Death, 
This is the burial-note 
After the end of breath 
Gasped by corrupted throat ; 
After the passing-breath 
Heard from the grave remote; 
This is the Song of Death, 
This is the burial-note . . . 

O, sweet it is to be long since dead 
And buried in earth so cold ; 

To feel on the roof of thy narrow bed 
The weight of the sodden mould, 
To lie in the dark of an endless night 

And the lees of an oozing slime — 
I know these joys, for I have been dead 

And buried, a long, long time . . . 

My lips they are drawn in a ghastly smile 
But through them there goes no breath ; 

And my eyes they are dead and sunk in my 
head. 
Yet forever they stare, in death. 
For I look at the rotting burial-boards 

Close sagging above my head ; 



93 



Yea, I have been buried a long, long time. 

For I have been long since dead . . . 

My corpse is a-cold, f.)r the chilling mould 
Is about me on every side. 

I lie like a stone, with my Terror, alone. 
For here in the grave I died . . . 
Yea, I screamed full loud in my ghastly shroud 

When I woke in the noisome gloom, 
And the sweat of my agony froze like ice 

As I fought with my fearful doom . . . 

But now — I am dead, though my lips still 
laugh 
In the motionless black of night. 

Though my bleared eyes stare in the grave, 
for they see 

Not even the glow-worm's light ; 
Yet still I can see that to buried be 

Is a sweet and a happy thing. 
For I sing my Song in the House of Death, 

And this is the Song I sing : 

Welcome - slimy - worm - with - sightless - 

head - 
Blindly - burrowing - in - the - fearful - night - 
Happy - shouldst - thou - be - for - lack - of - 

sight - 



94 



Since - thou - canst - not - see - that - I - am 

- dead - 
When - thou - comest - from - thy - secret - 
place - 
Eating - through - the - earth - with - silent - 

care - 
Boldly - come - I - bid - and - boldly - dare - 
Down - to - drop - upon - my - leaden - face - 

Drag - thy - sluggish - slime - across - my - 
eyes - 
They - will - never - close - to - touch - of - 

thine - 
Coil - within - these - hideous - lips - of - mine - 
Where - a - Maid - breathed - long - ago - 
her - sighs - 

Welcome - slimy - worm - with - creeping - 

head - 
Meet - it - is - that - thou - my - friend - shouldst 

-be- 
Happy - art - thou - since - thou - canst - not - 
see - 
I - am - buried - deep - and - I - am - dead 



95 



Then these be the words of the Song of Death 
That I sing in my prison-cell. 

It charms the worms with the hooded heads, 
And the worms I love full well. 
It charms the worms, though my singing is 

But a mouthing, mumbling groan. 
For I have no breath in this House of Death 

And I mutter with lips alone . . . 

So, my tale it is told of the dread and cold 
In the depths of this livid gloom ; 

And I motionless lie, as I strive to die, 
As I rot in my narrow room. 
For I am not dead whilst my fearful head 

The foul, fat worms forsake ; 
But, when that is gone, then my dream it is done, 

And I sleep at last, never to wake . . . 



This is the Song of Death, 
This is the burial-note 
After the end of breath 
Gasped by corrupted throat ; 
After the passing breath 
Heard from the grave remote ; 
This is the burial-note. 
This is the Song of Death . . . 



96 



JUL 261904 



